Half of a Whole
by Mistress.WhoLock
Summary: George does not take Fred's death well, how could he? Fred dead, joy drained from his soul and tired of everyone seeing him as Fred's ghost, George runs away to start a new life but his old one isn't quite ready to say goodbye. (Angst with happy ending. Trigger warning: eating disorder, depression, suicidal thoughts, self harm. Fred Lives. Later Professor!George)
1. Chapter 1

The war was over. That was good, right? It was, it definitely was; it was probably the best event to occur in at least the last hundred years of wizarding history and yet George couldn't bring himself to feel even the smallest hint of happiness.

Fred was gone. Fred was gone. Gone where? When was he coming back? Why wasn't he beside him right where he was supposed to be? George's brain refused to accept it, he simply wasn't capable of accepting it let alone processing it. After that one moment he'd first looked at his brother's lifeless body and felt the most excruciating, desperate agony he'd ever felt in his life he hadn't been able to understand anything. It was as if his body had switched off his ability to feel or to think for what he'd find if he did would be too much for him to take.

He'd certainly felt then, then when he'd seen the ghost of a smile that didn't reach glazed over brown eyes, Fred's last smile, and he'd known he'd never smile again. He'd felt so strongly and so much, the bitter loss, the agony, the burning love, the unbridled rage at the world that'd dared rob him of his twin. He'd felt so strongly that he was sure he couldn't possibly contain it in his body and he'd be split in two by it.

But now there was only numbness, nothingness, emptiness. George's cheeks were still wet with tears, proof that seconds (minutes, years, hours–time was washing right over him along with everything else) ago he had been able to feel. He was supposed to feel, be upset, be hysterical like all those around him were not untouched like some soulless monster. Maybe he was soulless now, maybe his and Fred's souls were connected and his had perished along with his brother's. It made sense really.

Somehow, it became dinner time, Ginny gently tugging at his sleeve "George, they're providing food in the hall. Mum sent me to fetch you." George frowned slightly as he took in his sister's appearance. She looked far more put together than he remembered, still grief stricken of course but there was a fierce strength there now where there'd once only been hopelessness. She was wearing new clothes, too, a large, shapeless jumper he was sure she didn't own before.

George opened his mouth to respond but only a choking noise came out. For some reason, however, Ginny's face seemed to light up at his attempted response. He cleared his throat and tried again "I-I," he cut off to clear his throat again "…n-not hungry." he managed, his voice hoarse like he'd been crying or screaming for a long time. It was true, he realised, he wasn't hungry. The thought of letting any food even enter his mouth sickened him. But mainly he simply didn't have the strength to sit amongst familiar faces, to continue with life when his life had really ended the second Fred's heart had stopped beating.

Ginny frowned, worry crossing her features "George…" he winced slightly at that, before… this he'd been able to count on his fingers the number of times he'd been addressed by his name alone "You said that all the other times we've asked. You haven't eaten for days now, you must at least try. At least come and talk to us. It doesn't have to be about…" her breath caught in her throat for a moment, tears starting to pool in her eyes "About y'know, just talk about something. You can't isolate yourself like this, you're making yourself ill!"

Ginny fixed him with a pleading look. George blinked in surprise: all the other times? Days? Ginny must be confused or perhaps he'd misunderstood her, they couldn't have possibly have been here for days and he didn't remember ever having been asked to a meal before. Still, not wanting to make a scene he just nodded and followed her silently. If Ginny noticed the way he stumbled when he stood she didn't say anything.

* * *

Ginny was worried; incredibly worried. George wasn't okay. Well, of course he wasn't, none of them were, but George was particularly not okay. It was totally understandable, after all he'd lost his twin. Ginny couldn't imagine how positively awful poor George must be feeling, she was absolutely grief stricken to have lost Fred, as were they all, and Fred was only another of her many older brothers. That sounded awful but she didn't mean to say that Fred had been insignificant or unloved or that his loss wouldn't be a wound that she was sure would never heal for any of them. It was just that none of them were as close to Fred as George was… had been. In fact, Ginny was pretty sure it was actually impossible for two people to be closer than Fred and George were.

Poor, poor George, she thought to herself as she walked to go get him. She really hoped George would say yes to food, she couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or socialised or slept or gotten his wounds tended to or anything else that was vital to being alive. Everyone knew he was wasting away like this but no one was really doing anything. Because what was there to do for one boy out of hundreds; who were all suffering, all mourning, all who didn't know how to continue; aside from giving him food, water and blankets like everyone else. Ginny could see where they were coming from she supposed but surely no one wanted a single speck of blood more shed after all of this, surely no one wanted to see another life lost. And that's just how serious she thought this was, George looked like someone who might do something they probably wouldn't live to regret.

The thought made a most awful feeling overcome her body, the fact that anything could still make her shudder after everything she'd been through was quite frankly surprising. But the thought of losing George was too much to bear, the thought that George might commit sui– no. No. He wouldn't, that was just her mind being morbid after everything that she'd experienced. Still, her stride became quicker, a sudden need to see her brother overcoming her.

And there George was; knees held tightly to his chest, half buried in his knees with just enough poking out for his eyes, which were a puffy red and glazed over, to be seen. He hadn't changed position at all since she'd last seen him. They'd all collectively agreed that no one would be left alone, even if they wanted to be, since it was far easier to take care of each other than themselves. They'd left George very momentarily alone, though, to check on food as George had stopped responding a while ago and probably wouldn't appreciate being carried around. Mum had initially freaked out and called for medical help but they'd been told that George was most likely fine, that zoning out was a common symptom of grief and stress and had been instructed to seek further medical attention if he continued to remain unresponsive. The building was full with medical help stations. The medical help stations were full with people.

Ginny approached George cautiously. What if he didn't respond? At first he'd had lapses of talking almost normally, as if he was in some sort of shock and his brain was pointedly ignoring the lack of a certain ginger, joking companion. Mostly, though, he'd been crying in about every way possible. When Charlie had been in charge of looking after George he'd started screaming desperately, crying so loud and so soulfully it was sure to make anyone who heard it feel as if a dementor had decided to stroll by. Charlie had pulled his little brother into his arms, running his hands gently through the heartbroken boy's hair as he cried. He always had had a soft spot for the twins. It was actually a really sweet, adorable sight in a tragic sort of way. Kind of like seeing an owl chick dead on the ground who'd tried to fly a bit too early. Ginny shivered, her mind really was morbid nowadays.

To her absolute relief, not only did George respond but he agreed to eating, something he desperately needed. Even in the post-warzone George stood out as looking malnourished. Ginny bit her lip, trying to resist the urge to help George walk when he stumbled which may scare him off, as she hoped that this small gesture from George was a sign of better things to come. She pointedly ignored the voice inside her that said nothing would ever be the same again and that this was only the beginning.

* * *

George was shaking. Not a single inch of any limb seemed to be spared. He didn't really know why, maybe it was cold in here. He couldn't tell, numbness possessing his body, pretending to be protecting him but instead draining him of what it meant to be human. He wasn't even grieving Fred's death, what type of monster wouldn't cry? Fuck, he was disgusting. He deserved to be the dead one. Fred…dead? … No. Some part of him must know that it was ridiculous but he still refused having no argument, no reason but still refusing to understand it. It couldn't be true.

Somehow he was sitting at a table with his family (how could it be family without Fred?). When had he gotten here? He must have spaced out on the walk. They must have been talking to him, how rude of him not to respond but it was so hard to understand what was being said and what was wanted from him. Words refused to register; maybe he didn't have the concentration to listen, the swirling crescendo of pure chaos in his mind too distracting, maybe he was having hearing problems after losing an ear then listening to so many explosions, maybe he'd simply stopped caring enough.

"–orge? George, sweetheart, you have to eat. I know you mightn't have an appetite but you just have to make yourself, it'll get easier once you start. Okay?" His mum was gently holding his face and looking into his eyes, the cold touch distant, like he was feeling it through a veil or in a dream. No. The touch wasn't cold, it was warm like chocolate and hugs like mum's touch always was, he was cold. From head to toe, completely and utterly and judging from the blazing fires around the room that wasn't right.

"–lease, baby boy, you must eat!" George must have zoned out again because mum had started talking again, desperation increased in her voice tenfold. Damn, she was so very strong. To be a mother in this situation… it must be the toughest thing in the world to experience and then at the end of the day put on a brave face and look after a whole grieving family. The self-disgust bubbled up again within George, he really was a selfish bastard. Everyone had done so much to help him and each other and to generally be productive and what'd he done but make things harder?

"I know it's hard but it's necessary. It's very plain food, just some soup and white bread, nice and easy to digest." Mum said with such a tender look, so sad and loving it almost burst a hole in his numbness. Goodness, what a thought. Surely such a thing would open the floodgates, leaving George under an endless body of water never to be found again. He blinked several times and swallowed. He didn't quite trust his voice and didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of his whole (never whole, never again, never never never) family so he just nodded and pulled the untouched plate of food closer with trembling hands. This seemed to make some sort of tension leave the whole table. Fuck, he was such a dick. Making his loved ones suffer more after all they'd been through.

Almost mechanically, George brought the food to his mouth: a small bread roll. As much as his body protested against the action, George forced himself to bite a bit off, the substance then staying in his mouth, feeling like a cross between sand and a dead mouse. He couldn't swallow it. It was genuinely impossible, he was genuinely incapable of it. But as his eyes scanned briefly around the room he knew he had to. There sat his family and friends, all overrun with care for him despite how tired they were. George was overcome by a sudden feeling of affection, what'd he ever done to deserve such amazing people in his life? At the same time a voice within him sneered, he didn't deserve this, he had no right to be here or to receive their affection. He contributed nothing but negatively now, his role used to be to make people laugh but how could he do that when he couldn't even smile?

After a few minutes the bread started to decompose in his mouth, feeling unpleasantly like a rotting corpse. Maybe he'd just become unable to think of anything but death, or maybe it was simply the smell of the dead that clung to the air. Either way he had to swallow the bread, he didn't think anyone there wanted to see him spit it out and he couldn't just leave it in his mouth, oh how ironic it would be if after all that he simply died by choking on bread.

When he swallowed he immediately wished he hadn't. The action itself was so hard to do, it was so hard to win the psychological struggle that said he couldn't possibly eat without Fred, he couldn't continue without Fred, and physically his throat was dry and swollen from ashes, injury and tears. But he finally managed to do it, the bread scraping his raw throat with a pain that was welcome in contrast to sickening revulsion that filled his body. He felt disgusting and immoral for eating at a time like this, when so many people wouldn't eat again. He wanted to burry his face in his twin's chest and cry while he stroked his back, telling him he'd be okay. But Fred was gone, his body refused to cry and no one and nothing was okay.

George felt sick to the stomach and quickly drank some of the soup, hoping it'd help keep the bread down. It didn't. The soup was salty and thick and cold with occasional pockets of warmth, in his mind it was blood. The blood of the dead, warmth leaving it never to return as it lay exposed to the air, thickening and clotting on the ground and he was drinking it, leeching off the dead. George let out a violent gag, clamping a hand over his mouth as his chair skidded across the floor to let him escape. He heard faint cries of alarm from his family behind him but concentrated instead on finding a safe place to empty the meagre contents of his stomach.

He was shaking and gaging, the barely digested food gone quickly leaving only bitter bile. He had no food left but his stomach didn't seem to care. He felt absolutely awful, suffering that seemed to have no end gripping his body like the cruciatus curse. It felt kind of cathartic, like a sick alternative to crying, so he just embraced it, letting himself completely escape his mind in favor of the harsh demands of his body.

* * *

Dinner was a rather somber affair. It wasn't silent, everyone was talking like if they stopped they'd be consumed by the darkness. It was like that first meal all over again when the war had finally finished and the dead still littered the hall, Bill shivered at the memory. It was because George was here, he knew. Not because they didn't like the poor boy, they loved him, or because they didn't want him to eat with them, they were relieved he was here. No, it was because George looked absolutely awful. Everyone had sort of shut off their grief, losing themselves to the chores and work that needed to be done, and George brought them all back to earth.

He was like a personification of the war aftermath. He was scattered with injuries, his face covered in dirt and his clothes tattered aside from the jumper Charlie had forced a then half unconscious George into. His eyes were bright red from tears, dark purple bags formed underneath from lack of sleep. His face was expressionless and pale, a look Bill thought was completely unnatural on his little brother. All in all he looked like a corpse. The thought made Bill's blood run cold. He forced himself to remember that just because the war was over didn't mean that people couldn't still die. With the horror of the battle followed by the relief of it being over, people were in danger of forgetting that. He had to look after his family, protect them, make sure everyone looked after themselves. They weren't out of the cooking pot yet but like hell he'd let anyone get hurt if he could help it. And George was in the most danger right now.

He watched his baby brother hoping to see a flicker of his usual joy but there was nothing, of course there'd be nothing. There was nothing but an empty space beside George and an equally empty look in his eyes. Pain stabbed in Bill's chest in grief. Fred was dead and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, George was lost too.

Everyone had a little try to get George to talk over dinner but he didn't respond at all, like he couldn't hear them, until mum started to try getting him to eat. He gave a small nod which filled Bill with some sort of relief and hope. He was sure he wasn't the only one tensely watching George eat, he really needed some food if the way his normally fitting clothes were hanging a bit too loose was anything to go by. George ate a bite, small but at least it was something, and for a moment everything was alright.

"Georgie, what's wrong?" Charlie asked, voice laced with concern. Bill's head snapped to Charlie then George. Charlie had always had some sort of extra connection to the twins, probably a byproduct of having to always look after them when the younger kids were born, so he'd always been able to tell first when something was up with Fred or George. Now Bill looked, George did look even paler, if that was even possible, and had a very worrying look on his face. A moment later, he stood up abruptly and ran, a hand clasped over his mouth. Everyone called after him, looking worried. Charlie sprung up and followed in quick pursuit of him, no hesitation. Bill quickly ran after the pair.

Panting, a moment after Charlie, Bill arrived where George had collapsed on the floor and was throwing up. The sight was physically painful, George gave off an aura of agony that had anyone close to him close to crying in empathy. But it wasn't just that, of course, it was the sight of his brother, whom he loved dearly, hurting so badly. He wanted to take the pain away, he wanted to make it better. He should be able to, damn it! He was big brother, that was supposed to be his job. But no, there was no force on this earth that could make this better, only a miracle could bring the light back into the poor boy's life.

Carefully, Bill lay a hand on George's shoulder, crouching down on the ground on the opposite side of George to Charlie. He gave his other brother a weak smile which he returned, grief and desperation obvious in those eyes that briefly met his own. He supported George's body to stop him from falling, it was as if all the strength had drained out of him, while rubbing the younger wizard's back soothingly, hoping to at least comfort the boy if not stop the pain.

"Shhh, it's okay, Georgie. You're okay, my hatchling. Just breath, breeaath, I've got you." Charlie whispered softly to George, massaging his back gently and resting his chin on the younger's shoulder. Bill spared himself a moment from the darkness to smile fondly, he'd always found it adorable when Charlie acted all mother-hen over the twins. The fondness turned to bitter grief thinking about the twins. Twin. Fred was dead now. The thought made him want to scream and cry to the sky but there was nothing he could do about it, that certainly wouldn't do any good. But George wasn't dead. He was alive and here and in pain, Bill wasn't going to lose him too. And that meant tomorrow he was taking him to get medical help, what anyone else, including the nurses, said be damned. It was with a new sense of purpose and determination that Bill continued to look after his ill brother.


	2. Chapter 2

George opened his eyes slowly, wincing when stinging lights met him. He looked around, confused. Where was he, hadn't he just been at dinner? A sick, overwhelming fear overcame him; maybe he'd been captured by Death Eaters, maybe they were going to torture him for information (or simply for fun) and then use him as a hostage, maybe they'd simply kill him. No… the war was over. That's right, they'd won. Voldemort was gone. Fred was gone…

A sharp pain stabbed his stomach, followed by a lingering nausea. He gagged painfully, trying and failing to hold himself up, he was simply too weak. He vaguely heard cursing beside him then someone shouting. Too loud, loud, loud. Why where they shouting? It sounded like they were distressed, someone had to help them…

He must have blacked out again because next thing he knew there were figures surrounding him. The sight of people looming above him almost sent him into a panic attack but that died away upon recognising that one of the figures was Charlie. Charlie wouldn't let anything happen to him, if he was here then he didn't have to be scared, he was safe. George closed his eyes and listened to the figures talking.

"-woke up and was gagging then passed out again. That's when I ran to find you." That was Charlie's voice. He sounded worried and grim but nevertheless his voice was comforting to him. He instinctively curled towards it, his limbs feeling like lead.

"You were right to get me. I've given him a stomach numbing potion, if he starts gagging or throwing up again it could seriously damage his stomach lining. The internal healing potion I gave him hasn't fully worked yet, after it has it should be safe to remove the numbness but he still won't be able to eat proper food for a while." That was Madam Pomfrey. What was she doing here with him? This was a war zone, why was she wasting her time on him when there were seriously ill and injured people?

He must have moved or groaned because suddenly the people seemed to be aware of his consciousness. "Morning, kiddo," Charlie said softly, brushing a hand over his face which George leaned into "You gave us quite a scare there." Scare? What'd he done? Why was everything so confusing?

A soft, cool hand ran through his hair, feeling nice against his burning head. Mum. It had to be.

"Oh George… it's going to be alright, baby boy. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry." She said, voice choking into tears at the end. George hated to hear her so sad like that. He also hated that he wasn't feeling sad, only numb. The numbness was suffocating, like someone had wrapped plastic around his whole body and he couldn't breath. He wanted to claw and stab at the numbness so he could escape, so it would finally stop and he could feel again. Like this he felt like a monster.

He must have looked pained at those thoughts because the people around his started fussing, making sure he was comfortable and had enough medicine which was strange because he wasn't sick or particularly injured. George frowned and assessed his body incase he had any injuries he'd forgotten about. But no, all there was was a strange numb feeling in his stomach. It was a weird sensation, like he'd been cut in half. Of course, there were also scratches and bruises but nothing warranting all this attention.

Charlie seemed to understand why he was confused and bit his lip, glancing at mum and Madam Pomfrey as if he wanted to tell him but was afraid they'd disapprove. He soon started to speak "You got sick, Georgie. You were already so weak and had been blacking out; then, when you tried to eat you started throwing up and wouldn't stop. You started throwing up blood and weren't responding anymore to anything then you collapsed but there was still blood coming out of your mouth. So we called for medical help. That was last night. Not much has happened since then, we've just been giving you various medicines to help. Don't worry, though, you're okay. You'll be just fine." Charlie said, squeezing his hand, though it seemed like he was reassuring himself just as much as he was George.

"Don't look at me like that!" Charlie said to someone else, George had closed his eyes again so he wasn't sure who "He has a right to know what's going on. It'll only worry him more not knowing."

Someone sighed, Madam Pomfrey "Alright. He's in a very delicate state right now. We shouldn't look only at physical injuries and forget about mental, it's his mental state that made him throw up in the first place." Another sigh "Are you sure you don't want to send him to Saint Mungo's? He's eligible for first treatments and their full attention."

Considering they'd started talking about him in third person, George assumed they figured he'd fallen asleep or zoned out again. That was okay, though, socialising was becoming increasingly draining for him.

"No, I'm quite sure, thank you, Poppy. Even with George as a priority patient their attentions and time are still very stretched right now. I think he'll be better off at home where we can give him all our care. Of course, we'll pop by for appointments or have someone come in if he can't be moved. But I think it's best this way." Mum was talking now. They were all treating him like a critical care patient, how sick was he? They'd said he wasn't injured badly physically. Was he really that mentally fucked up that it could earn him hospital priorities above the other war injured patients? The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

Charlie began to talk, sounding far more childish and lost than George was ever used to hearing him "Is… Is he really that bad?" Charlie whispered, as if he didn't want the words to be heard because he didn't really want an answer. George heard fabric shifting and assumed that that was mum moving to hug her son. She let Madam Pomfrey answer though.

"It's… a delicate and complicated situation. Mental problems and illnesses are far trickier than physical ones because they are so unpredictable. They absolutely must not be underestimated or taken lightly, you've already seen some of what they can cause. I'm not going to lie to you, your brother is in a very bad state. To lose someone like that, a twin no less! It really is a testament to how evil that war we were fighting was.

"There's no telling how he'll be reacting, but I think we can guess it'll be bad. He's lost his best friend and his brother. But not just that, it'll be like he's lost a part of himself too. His whole way of life will change and everything around him will be reminding him of what he's lost. It'll be incredibly tough for him and it'll take a long time for him to be well again. There are different treatments I can provide but there's not much I can do. He needs time and your support, but he should be okay. Just remember how serious this is. I can't stress to you enough how important it is not to underestimate it."

It was unnerving being talked about like this. For once his numbness was actually helping or George was sure he'd have had a panic attack by now. When they were talking it was like they were talking about someone else and he was watching from afar. He hadn't really processed that it was him who'd lost a brother and a best friend, that it was him who's life would never be the same again. When he tried to think about it more his brain simply shut off and moved onto something else. Maybe he was dying, maybe this was his soul moving onto the next life and that's why he felt so disconnected.

It was as if somehow Charlie had read his mind. "Is he…" Charlie took a shaky breath and George could imagine that his whole body was trembling "Could he… die?" He spat the last word, as if he couldn't stand it sitting on his tongue.

It took a while for anyone to answer. "Yes, dear." Madam Pomfrey said gently, carefully. For the first time George truly realised and respected what she did, what she must have do deal with all the time. How were you supposed to tell someone their loved one was injured or sick let alone dying? "He could." She continued "He could from exhaustion, infection or the likes. He could… kill himself." There was a strangled cry, George didn't know whether it was from his mum or brother.

"I know but I'm afraid it's quite common in this situation. That's why you must look after him. There are other things too. I'd advise to seek medical help the moment things start looking not-quite-right. But he won't necessarily die." She sighed "I wish I could help more, at least give you more certain answers but that's just what makes situations like this so difficult, it really is very uncertain how it'll go."

There was another silence, in which, George realised with a shocked horror, he could hear the sounds of his big brother crying. Finally, his mother spoke "I can't thank you enough, Poppy. Really, what you do here is beyond amazing."

"It's no problem, Molly. I hope you and your family have a safe journey back. Things will get better for you. Just hold on." George listened to the sounds of them saying goodbye while exhaustion stole his consciousness once again.

* * *

"You look like shit." Bill said bluntly, leaning on the door frame as he observed his oldest sibling's haggard form.

Charlie let out a breathy laugh and run a hand over his face "Oh, bloody hell." He muttered exhaustedly to himself "And you look like a princess, don't you, Bills?" He quipped, turning his attention to his brother.

"Touché." said Bill, raising his hands in surrender as he walked closer.

"I'd say come and socialise with the others but I'm surprised you've left the sickbay at all."

"They kicked me out." Charlie answered simply, looking a cross between very young and far too old, either way lost. Bill sighed and wrapped an arm around Charlie, smiling when he instantly leaned against him. "Probably for the best, Char, you need some rest."

"So do you." Charlie was quick to retaliate.

"I know." He replied simply "C'mon. I know it's midday but neither of us slept a wink last night, let's go find somewhere to sleep. At least lie down a bit." When he offered no protest, Bill gently lead him out of the room.

Breath catching in his throat, Bill finally asked the question he'd been dying and dreading to ask "How is he?" There was no need to elaborate on who 'he' was. They're was only one person who'd been on any of their minds. Charlie made a small strangled noise in his throat before letting out a shaky breath and speaking "He's… Not good. Oh my gosh… Georgie…" Charlie gasped, clasping a hand over his mouth, Bill saw tears starting to trickle down his cheeks.

"Hey," he said, voice wavering "Don't cry, Char, you'll set me off." He said, feeling his own eyes stinging.

The two brothers clung onto each other for a while, battling their tears and trying not to give in to the despair, knowing they needed to be the strong, composed big brothers for their family.

* * *

George stared at the empty wall as he sat on his bed, doing nothing, saying nothing. If any of his family walked past they would surely think he was insane just staring at nothing, maybe he was. But it was just too painful to look anywhere else. His family had come home, they were home. For the first time that wasn't comforting. At first leaving Hogwarts had been a good thing, something lifted from George's chest when he no longer had to look at those halls that reeked so freshly of death. Leaving that battle ground, that grave yard, felt for a moment like it might actually be possible to move on in life. But no. Then they'd arrived home: the Burrow, and that'd made things oh so very much worse.

It was home. That was the problem; it was their home. The place where all seven siblings and both parents had felt loved, relaxed, at home. These walls had witnessed them grow up, every inch had a story, every item held a memory. It was a ghost house. Fred was everywhere here. All the happy memories were drained of life, the positive emotions feeling like a lie. All the sad memories felt like a stab to the chest, making him regret every moment they'd foolishly wasted on negative emotions. Didn't they know their days were numbered?

Everyone was so sad when they got there. Mum, Dad, his brothers, his sister, Harry and Hermione. Each person lost to their own thoughts, too shocked to even try to be alright right now. And that's why he'd had to leave. This was a ghost house: George was the ghost. He knew, in that one moment he realised, that he'd never be George. He'd never been George, they'd been Fred and George. Now, he wasn't George, only poor dead Fred's twin, Fred's face haunting them. He had to leave them alone while they came to terms with… it. And there was only one place in the house that he would be able to truly keep out of their way. Which is why, although he felt like kicking and screaming and running in the opposite direction even if he was forced to go there at gun point, he was sitting in their bedroom.

Here, everything was Fred. The strength of his ghost increased tenfold in comparison to the rest of the house. George'd had to close to door abruptly, gasping and sliding down it onto the floor, as the strength of the Fredness was overwhelming. And on the floor he'd stayed, but he couldn't bring his eyes to wander from that little, merciful, markless piece of wall. He couldn't! He couldn't look anywhere else. It hurt too much. Fred wasn't dead, he wasn't gone! He couldn't be gone!

George gasped, the pain inside him too much to contain. Struck by something indescribable, he doubled over, on his hands and knees with his head bowed as he struggled to breath. Fred was dead, Fred was dead. Merlin, no, fuckfuckfuck, no… no, no, no! Why? Why? "Why? Why? Whywhyplease, please, Fred, come back. Don't leave me! Don't leave me alone, pleased!" George was crying now, finally crying and maybe it'd have felt good to finally let go, he wouldn't be able to tell, though, through all of the pain, shock, horror, despair.

Falling onto his side, unable to support his exhausted body as it was wracked with sobs, George finally took in his surroundings, finally dared look at his brother's bedroom. He let out a cry, it felt like he was with Fred himself, his presence was so strong here, so many memories it felt like he could reach out and touch him, it felt like if he cried loud enough, hurt long enough then maybe Fred would respond.

"Pleeease! PLEASE! FRED! Listen to me, Fred! Where are you? COME BACK, COME BAACCCKK! No…" George was crying uncontrollable, burying his face in the carpet, digging his fingers into it for security. He let out a heart wrenching sob, it felt like his soul was leaking out of him with every tear and every desperate sound. It felt like he was fracked into pieces and his very life was gushing out of the holes, like blood from a wound. He'd bleed out until he was cold, unmoving and the very life had drained from his body. He couldn't take it. He was breaking apart.

"No, no, no, no, no. Please, please, no, please no, please. I need you. Fred, I need you. I can't live without you. I don't want to live, I don't want to live, I can't. I'm not supposed to be alive. It should have been me. It should have been me. Kill me. Take me with you. Take me with you, don't leave me alone. I don't know how to be alone. I can't do it. Take me, take me, take me with you…"

* * *

Part of Harry thought that maybe someone had looked into his mind and found his worst nightmare, making it a reality. But no, that was impossible, he knew, because even in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind he couldn't imagine something as horrific as all this.

He was in the kitchen, helping Mrs Weasley with the food. He was good at cooking, at least those years with the Dursleys had given him something. He was glad to help, too. If Mrs Weasley hadn't insisted he would have tried to make lunch for them all, the Weasleys shouldn't have to work right now. But judging from the slightly blank look on her face Mrs Weasley was enjoying the blankness of routine. Ron was right, he didn't know how this felt, he never had family. He couldn't even begin to imagine how this felt. Losing Sirius had hurt so badly, even the mention of his parents deaths made him sick, so how on earth was someone supposed to bear what the Weasleys must be feeling?

It made him feel guilty, even more so than the fact that the fight was all over him, because he felt like a traitor, being sad, standing amongst the mourning like he understood what they were going through. Of course he was sad, of course he was mourning but in that he felt like they were all staring at him, sneering, asking him what gave him the right to feel sorry for himself; he didn't understand what they were going through. Of course, none of the Weasleys were thinking that. They were all far too nice for such a thought to even enter their heads. But still, he felt like that.

Hermione, of course, was going through personal hell too. She'd just lost her family in one of the most heart wrenching and scarring ways possible: by her own hand, for their own good, so that they'd still be out there but never remember her, not a single second of even having a daughter. Every memory of her childhood lost, gone without a trace, as if her memories were just imagination. Harry let out a pained breath; the least he could do is help make them all a nice lunch.

"Thank you, dear." Molly said when they'd finished cooking, brushing Harry's cheek with a grateful look in her eyes that didn't quite drown out the sorrowful one.

"It's no problem, Mrs Weasley, I'd like to help." He insisted, feeling strange talking about such normal, domestic things after all that… It felt sort of like chucking a pebble into an endless, dark well.

Setting the food onto the table, there was a murmur of 'thank you's from everyone, which Harry could only answer with a small smile that he was sure didn't reach his eyes. He took his place in one of the three remaining empty seats. Everyone slowly, as if needing to warm up to the process of having food, ate, they sat in relative silence, needing this time to collect their thoughts but knowing they couldn't stay sullen and silent forever or it'd permanently damage them.

About five minutes into eating a sickeningly sorrowful cry echoed through the house. They all felt shocked before realising where it came from, their hearts sinking. The endless, desperate sobs of 'no' and 'please' were painfully loud through the otherwise silent house. Opposite Harry, Percy let out a small, stifled sob of his own, letting his head fall onto his hands as his body shook with silent tears. At first Harry was surprised by the outburst but then not at all, it made sense. Thinking back, he could see how Percy might wrongfully blame himself, or how he might feel the loss even more, being remorseful over time wasted away from his family that could have so easily been taken from him; in fact, some of it had been.

Percy's most certainly weren't the only wet eyes in the room. In fact, there wasn't a single pair spared. In a different circumstance it may have been sweet, a whole family +2 feeling the same thing, but here there was nothing but sorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Charlie woke up screaming, jerking in his bed as he looked around in a dazed panic. It wasn't anything new anymore, they all had nightmares. After what they'd just been through how could they not? Still, it wasn't pleasant. Charlie swung his legs off the side of his bed, leaning on his knees and pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes to ward of the oncoming headache. He could always take potions to help but he'd decided against it; the nightmares were a fact of life now that it was better he dealt with instead of sweeping out of sight. Besides, the last thing he needed right now was to get addicted to any potions.

Frowning to himself, Charlie noted that the panic and doom feeling from his nightmare hadn't faded like it normally did. It was probably nothing, with the war everyone had been so on edge constantly that they were now seeing threats where there were only shadows. But still, he couldn't help but feel like something was wrong. Frown deepening, Charlie tried to think about what exactly might be wrong. At a thought he paled. George.

Was George okay? He had to be okay, why wouldn't he be? Despite his convincing himself, Charlie couldn't get the thoughts of what Madam Pomfrey said out of his head. Could George really commit suicide? Or hurt himself? Well, really, anyone could, he supposed, and George most certainly wasn't in the best state of mind right now. But it just seemed to horrible for his brain to even process that that might happen. Then again, George was also very weak and sick right now; he might be in non-self inflicted trouble too. Charlie bit his lip, anxiety over his poor little brother skyrocketing. Okay, he was definitely going to go check up on him right now, he couldn't sleep without knowing he was okay.

Charlie sighed as he slipped out of his bed, carefully stepping over all the creaky floorboards, he couldn't keep doing this. He was going to be anxious and on edge a lot and George was going to be alone a lot too so he couldn't go and check on him all the time, as much as he wanted to. He chuckled to himself as he walked down the stairs, he had most certainly inherited Mum's 'mother hen' trait.

Arriving at the twins' door, Charlie felt himself threaten to get lost in grief and memories. Never again would two mischievous, joyous young boys live behind there, plotting and giggling. The room already felt empty and dead, like it was a lifeless shell where before it had been bursting with energy. Charlie swallowed back tears and pushed back the door before stopping dead in his tracks, feeling cold panic rush through him. The room was empty.

Letting out a gasp of horror, Charlie staggered backwards. It was okay, it was okay; after all, he was out of bed at... 4am and he was perfectly fine. Yes, George was probably just downstairs getting a drink of water or using the toilet or maybe he too had woken up from a nightmare and decided he couldn't fall straight back to sleep. Briskly and silently, Charlie ascended down the stairs to check on whether George was there or not. He tried to bite back his panic until then.

The thought of losing George terrified Charlie to no end. It was too horrible. He hadn't really processed that Fred was gone. How could he be? How could someone be so vibrant and present and alive only to be gone the next moment without a trace, never to come back? The twins were in all of his memories, for almost as long as he can remember.

He could still remember the first time he'd met them. They were the smallest little bundles in the entire hospital and yet their presence was so big that it filled the room, Charlie had instantly fallen in love. Percy had been absolutely entranced by the two squirming beings that were even smaller than he was, it had been a mission to stop him from crawling over to them and waking them up. Bill had pulled his two baby brothers to his side lovingly as they all gazed at the new, cherished additions to their family. Mum and Dad had looked so happy and proud, they'd all been connected by one strong, unbreakable, all consuming energy. It was love. Love that never faded, never wavered, love that had stuck with them forever. Love that now had them all hurting so bitterly, that meant that there would forever be a missing spot within them no matter how much time passed. Despite all the pain it was causing, Charlie would never sacrifice that love for anything. Not a thing in the whole entire universe was worth more.

He sighed, pushing away his memories as he walked into the living room. At first it seemed empty, filled with silhouettes of furniture in the low light, but then he spotted an out of place shadow on the sofa. Upon closer inspection, Charlie found this to be George. Quickly, he checked him for any signs of injury or distress but there was nothing more than the slowly healing wounds and bruises that were already there. Observing his slowly rising and falling chest, Charlie finally allowed himself to relax.

He smiled to himself, bittersweet. Percy felt guilty for what he'd done, he felt responsible for Fred's death but that was complete nonsense. He felt as if he had betrayed the family and it was eating up at him but no one realised that it was really Charlie who had betrayed them, all along. It was him who had left the first opportunity he'd gotten, eager for independence and freedom. He'd taken his family for granted and now he would forever mourn all the moments he'd missed spending with his family, all the memories he could have made with Fred before it was too late. Now it would never be the same, he'd missed that chance. But like hell he would let any of these moments go to waste. No, he was going nowhere.

A soft movement on the sofa had his eyes shooting there. George had woken with a start, body stiff, eyes wide with panic, scanning the room for what'd woken him. Charlie would have cooed at the adorableness if it wasn't so sad. George should never have to be afraid like that, he shouldn't have to be able to wake at the slightest of sounds as if a silent murderer was standing in the shadows, waiting to kill him in his sleep. He sighed softly and shifted his concern to a more productive use.

"Hey, my little hatchling." He murmured softly, running a hand through his little brother's hair "I'm sorry for waking you." It warmed his heart that George seemed to relax slightly at his words and touch. He sat down next to him, feeling the sofa dip slightly under both of their weights. George looked at him in a slightly dazed, just woken up way. Charlie would bet his wages that George's dreams where just as pleasant as his own had been. "I had a nightmare," he explained, sensing that George was curious about his presence here "Couldn't fall asleep again." He said, deciding to leave out his worries concerning George. His brother just stared distantly at the ceiling, though Charlie doubted he was actually looking there.

George hardly actually talked anymore but Charlie always knew what he meant when he was trying to communicate. Well, 'trying' to communicate may be pushing it. Charlie sort of figured that he would sometimes vaguely bother trying to get some message across as if seeing if anyone cared enough to decipher it. Sometimes Charlie thought that George might be a born telepath, he would have moments, especially with Fred, when it was almost certain he was communicating without saying anything. Perhaps that was how Charlie always knew what was going on with George when everyone else seemed to be completely oblivious. Or maybe he just knew the boy so well.

"Couldn't sleep in your room, huh?" He said empathetically, very specifically avoiding the topic of a certain tragic event for both of their sakes, now was not the most convenient time for a breakdown. Charlie nodded, not needing a verbal response, he ran a hand through George's hair, sighing. "Well, if you get too sore from sleeping on the sofa you can always share my bed. There's enough room and I really wouldn't mind." He kissed George's forehead "You know I always love spending time with you."

Charlie bit his lip, lost in thought. Surprisingly, he was actually okay with this; he was okay with George being so quiet, sullen, withdrawn and unresponsive. Of course he wanted his brother to be happy, of course he wanted him to be healthy again but he would be okay if he never got better. He was okay as long as George was alive. He made it his mission to not treat the boy like he was something broken because he knew George hated that, he tried to incorporate him in activities so he would feel loved and never lonely. He just… he just loved his brother too much and it broke his heart to see him like this but that didn't mean he didn't love him anymore. Of course, they all still loved him but Charlie got the sick feeling that every time someone looked at George sadly or pityingly it made him feel like they didn't like this 'new' George and wanted the 'old' one back.

Shifting so that he was lying across the sofa too, George curled up against his side, Charlie sighed softly, suddenly overcome by the guilt of having abandoned his family all those years ago. That was happening more and more nowadays, he just couldn't forgive himself for it. Every precious moment he didn't bare witness to, every birthday or Christmas that his siblings might have wondered whether he cared about work more than them. He knew it was stupid, he knew that everyone left home eventually, it was just how the world worked and it didn't mean you didn't miss and love the people you left behind. But that didn't matter to him anymore, he'd made the wrong call. He should have stayed, or at least made more of an effort to come and visit. But no. And now Fred was gone and his family would never be the same again.

Just as Charlie felt tears prickling his eyes, a feather-light touch wrapped loosely around his waist. Looking down, he saw, with a small smile, that George had wrapped his arms around him in a soft hug, nuzzling his face gently against Charlie's side with his eyes exhaustedly closed. Charlie, in turn, pulled George into a more firm hug, massaging his back soothingly with one hand while he ran his fingers through his hair with the other "I love you, Georgie," he murmured, his lips pressed against his little brother's forehead "I love you so, so much." He breathed. It wasn't long until both brothers were asleep in each others' arms.

* * *

Bill woke with a start, knowing something was wrong but not what. It took him a moment to realise what was different in his room, usually having it to himself, but after a moment of blinking tiredly he realised what it was. Charlie wasn't there. He sighed and pulled himself out of bed groggily. What on earth was the boy doing up at.. 5:47 in the morning? No one in the Weasley family was an early riser, especially not Charlie.

A stab of concern struck him when he remembered his brother's nightmares. He himself had been gifted that he often slept dreamlessly but he had recently been woken up every so often by Charlie's screaming and thrashing at his nightmares, much to Charlie's chagrin. Bill frowned, remembering how the previous night he'd woken up, running to the bathroom where he'd then spent the better part of an hour throwing up and gagging painfully. Deciding he should probably make sure he was alright, Bill made his way out to look for him. Besides, he probably wouldn't be able to fall asleep again anyway.

Arriving outside the bathroom, Bill found it empty. He frowned in concern, quickening his pace as he walked down to the first floor, hoping everything was alright. He all but burst into the living room with badly restrained panic, but when he arrived he was glad he had at least stayed quiet enough. Charlie and George were sound asleep on the sofa, bodies laced together as their chests rose and fell softly. Bill chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. It took all his strength not to coo over the adorable sight and pinch their cheeks, they looked like newborn puppies!

Shaking his head with a bemused smile, Bill walked back out of the room so his presence wouldn't wake them, goodness knew they needed sleep. Instead, he walked into the kitchen, deciding it was too late to fall back to sleep so he might as well make himself useful. He started to cook breakfast, knowing the house would be waking up soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Charlie woke feeling far better than he had felt waking up in a very long time. His back hurt slightly from whatever cramped surface he'd been sleeping on and his right arm was numb but he felt bloody brilliant. Having no nightmares meant he finally got some proper rest, for the first time since before all this had started. He blinked groggily, looking around; two owlish brown eyes stared back. Charlie's face split into a lopsided grin "Morning, wildfire." Charlie murmured, huskily, kissing George on the cheek. He wasn't expecting any answering sentiment and took the way George slightly leant closer to the kiss as reply enough. However, much to Charlie's ecstatic surprise, George muttered a quiet "Mornin'." Charlie was grinning like an idiot by the time Bill walked into the room.

"Good morning, sleeping beauties." Bill said, fondly, pulling the living room curtains open, causing a stream of dawn-light trickle through the windows. After turning back around, Bill looked at him incredulously "What're you grinning like an idiot about?" He asked Charlie, bemused.

Charlie merely looked up at him innocently "The joys of brotherhood." he answered, cryptically.

Bill gave him a strange look, raising his eyebrow, but ended up dropping it with a shake of his head "Right. Well, you two are the first up. I've started breakfast but it's not ready yet. I'm making french toast."

Charlie wolf whistled "Trying to impress the missus, are we?" he teased.

That earned him a playful swat on the thy "Alright, that's it," Bill scolded "You'd better get your ass in the kitchen and help cut some fruit if you expect to be getting any of my cooking." he said before prompt;y disappearing back into the kitchen.

Charlie chuckled before nudging George "C'mon, Georgie, let's go help Bill before he gets his panties in a knot." he said, getting up gently from beneath his little brother. George blinked up at him for a moment, looking distant again, the lively spark from earlier gone from within his eyes. Charlie tried not to get too disappointed or worried and look on the bright side, at least George was reacting a little to his surroundings and he was actually moving. In his worst state he didn't move, didn't respond, Charlie wasn't even sure if he could hear or see anything, he was too lost inside his own mind. He'd been like that for days at Hogwarts right after… well, he'd also been like that for a good few hours after that time he'd broken down screaming and crying in his bedroom the other day. Charlie winced and tried not to give himself a panic attack. It was okay, George was okay, he was better. He was alive. More shaken now, Charlie gently pulled George up to a standing position before guiding him to the kitchen.

Bill tried to hide the worried look he shot his younger brothers when they entered, but Charlie caught it. He gave Bill a small, comforting smile and ran a gentle hand over George's back. He sighed, walking over to the chopping board; he could obviously chop the fruit using magic but doing it by hand provided an activity to do and George could do it with him. He really thought it was important to involve George in activities because otherwise it'd be easier and more likely that he'd slip back into his head. Maybe this way he might even improve a little, he might find solace in the rhythmic, undemanding act of just cutting fruit. At the least he just wanted to make sure George didn't feel isolated.

Carefully, he wrapped George's hand around the handle of the knife then placed his own on top. He'd be lying if he said he didn't wince at the memories the sight of the knife in George's hand brought to him, Madam Pomfrey's warning of George hurting himself, but he pushed that back. George was in his hands, literally, and he wouldn't let George get hurt. Besides, George probably wasn't even thinking of that, Charlie was just being paranoid. Rhythmically, Charlie started to chop the fruit, George's limp hand being carried along with his motion. He had been focusing so much on thinking about how much George could benefit from simply relaxing and losing himself in the activity that he hadn't even realised that that also applied to him. It felt good to not have to think, to not be afraid for his life and the fate of the world, to just… be.

After a while, Charlie felt something pulling his hand along as he cut the fruit. He looked down, grinning in surprised shock when he realised that it was George, he was actually moving now, not just being carried along by Charlie. He tried not to overreact and cause George to stop but he couldn't help himself from kissing his brother's cheek. Nowadays, sometimes interacting with George felt like trying to take an up close photo of a bird; it was delicate and slow and you had to be so very careful. You had to quit while you were ahead and call your losses because getting a far away picture of the bird is better than getting too close and making it fly away. Actually, it wasn't unsimilar to his experience with wild dragons. He'd always thought that his little brother was a lot like a dragon: unpredictable and fierce; protective, loyal and caring; far more intelligent than most would ever know; closes up like a cocoon when hurting. Charlie chuckled softly to himself, sometimes he thought that it was growing up looking after the twins that gave him his knack for handling dragons.

Bill seemed to have noticed George's improvement as he was watching with a brightness in his eyes. By the time all the fruits were finished being cut, George seemed to be in a far better state. Of course, he was still very obviously unwell but there was a liveliness to him, like an energy emanating from him, that Charlie had scarcely seen in the last few days. It was exciting, like a hope that maybe George would be okay again some day if they played their cards right and were patient. He knew he shouldn't get his hopes up like this, he should just be glad of what he had, the there and now, but he couldn't help it.

* * *

Bill watched as life returned to George's eyes. It was a strange thing to witness, it was kind of like waking someone up. You didn't really realise what was missing until you saw it return again. It was bittersweet because along with comprehension returning to George, Bill could see that the pain did to. He could understand why George kept shutting off, whether it was a conscious decision or his body's defense mechanism or maybe even a mixture of both. He knew that the horror, pain and desperation hurt too much to handle but it simply wasn't healthy for George to cut off like that. He doubted that George did it on purpose but he knew that they all needed to help the boy before they lost him forever. Still, all things aside, it was nice to see even a tiny fraction of George's regular vibrance return.

Charlie was really good at looking after George, even more so than Bill though the younger would probably never admit it. After all, he's the one who had insisted on involving George in activities and had managed to coax him into movement when he'd been completely catatonic for days. Bill occasionally felt kind of guilty, like he had a duty to be the best carer for his siblings as the oldest and he'd failed. He knew that was stupid, though, they were Charlie's little brothers and sister too, even though Charlie himself would always be a baby in Bill's eyes.

"Hey, George, can you help me flip the french toast?" He asked, noticing that his brothers had finished with the fruit. He figured that it was probably best for George to stay distracted while he was in this state, the mental stimulation would do him good too. George stared over at him for a moment before giving a small nod and walking over. He took the other spatula that Bill was holding out and got to the task. Over all he managed it quite well, Bill and Charlie both kept an eye on him so they could spot if he started to zone out; zoning out next to a flame didn't seem like the safest senario. George did start to cut off a few times, becoming slower at the task like something was distracting him, standing completely still, he even dropped the spatula completely once, not even seeming to realise. Bill did feel like someone was stabbing him in the gut every time George started to shut off but he kept reminding himself that this was already a massive improvement that none of them had expected.

When all was cooked and done, Bill, Charlie and George wandered over to the table. To Bill's surprise, Ron was already sitting there, looking very much like he wished he was still in bed.

"You're up early." Bill commented, starting to set out the plates and cutlery.

Ron grunted before rubbing his eyes "Harry kept screaming… Wanted to wake 'im but he's always screaming in his sleep, he'd never get any rest if I woke him every time." Ron explained sullenly, giving the perfect impression of what Ginny liked to call a 'sleep zombie'. The room entered a bit of a subdued mood at Ron's words as everyone was forced to exit their domestic safety and remember the horrors.

"Well, you might've helped us in the kitchen, though." Charlie chastised, light heartedly, cutting through the tension. Bill smiled, people often didn't realise with Fred and George there but Charlie was always one for jokes, making people smile and lightening the mood, too. Bill's smile fell, the twins… He shook it off as well as he could and started to set out the food.

Ron huffed indignantly "Yeah, and if I helped in the kitchen I'd have fell asleep and burnt the whole bloody house down, just watch."

Bill chuckled "You can't take the higher ground, Char, it took a threat of no food and a slap to get you to help me."

Ron looked at him with curiosity "Did it really?"

Now it was Charlie's turn to huff "No! Bill's just being a drama queen."

Bill just chuckled and shook his head. His eyes traveled to George and he was pleased to see that he was smiling faintly as he watched the activities unfold.

Soon they heard two pairs of footsteps traveling down the stairwell.

"Bet my bacon it's the girls." Charlie grinned.

"You're so on!" Ron retorted. Bill smiled to himself at their childishness. He himself thought it must be the girls. The footsteps were light indicating a smaller, leaner body which might've been Harry except this was two sets of footsteps not one. His hypothesis was proven right when Ginny and Hermione emerged from the doorframe, much to Ron's dismay and Charlie's glee.

"And there you have it, brother dearest. You simply don't have the flare for gambling." Charlie gloated.

"Don't promote gambling." Bill chided.

"Uh oh, this is suspicious." Ginny said, looking at them all as she sat down "What're you all doing up? I feel like you're plotting."

"Good morning to you too, little sister. There was once a day when you would just be happy to see me." Bill said with faux hurt.

Ginny rolled her eyes "You're such a sap, Bill."

Hermione went and sat next to Ron with a frown "Where's Harry?" she asked.

"Still sleeping, I think." Ron replied, causing Hermione's frown to deepen but she didn't ask anything more, she probably already knew from experience. Bill shook his head, it was insane to think about what his little brother and his friends had been through. But then they weren't so little anymore, he supposed.

Shortly after, Mum walked in, looking ruffled and extremely exhausted. "Oh sorry, dears, I don't know what's gotten into me! Sleeping in, my own babies having to make breakfast for me."

Bill smiled at her "It's okay, mum, really. We don't mind at all. Besides, you look tired, rest would do you good."

Mum cupped his cheek "Oh, my gentleman. So grown up now. This looks lovely." She said, turning her attention to the food.

"Thanks," Bill smiled "Courtesy of myself, Charlie and George." At the mention of the younger's name most people in the room looked surprised, in a pleasant way.

"Thanks, guys." Ginny said, though she looked mostly at George. George gave a small, shy smile before looking down and staring at his plate again; Charlie rubbed his back encouragingly.

Percy slipped into the room as quietly as he could; Ron, Hermione and Ginny were engaged in a conversation and didn't seem to even notice his arrival. "You alright, Perce?" Charlie asked, frowning in concern. Bill frowned too, Percy did look a bit green and pale. Percy simply nodded, not saying anything and staring at his plate. Bill sighed, that was two out of three brothers now.

After a moment, Ginny frowned "Harry's still not here? Do you think we should go up and wake him, mum?"

Surprisingly, it was Percy to answer "No, he's awake." When everyone stared at him questioningly he elaborated "We bumped into each other in front of the bathroom." That made Bill's concern heighten. Judging from the green look to Percy's face, he and Harry had probably both been throwing up. Bill sighed tiredly, it really did feel like his life was breaking at the seams.

They were soon joined by Harry who, as Bill had expected, also looked like he'd been ill. Really, PTSD was a menace. The front door opening and closing had them all starting in surprise, their curiosity arose when Dad walked in.

"Dad? Where've you been so early in the morning?" Ron asked.

From the sudden darkening of Dad's face, Bill didn't think that they'd like the answer. The man looked like he was struggling internally over whether he should answer the question or simply ignore it, which was extremely odd as he was usually such an open man. Bill's mind ran through all of the possible reasons this might be so and he didn't like any of them.

"Well, kids," he spoke, finally, looking as if he really didn't like to say what he was about to "I was at… I made a booking for a consultation at the funeral home." Bill's eyes shot to George who's face had drained of the little colour it possessed and his eyes shut off, looking like newly glazed glass. Charlie was looking very distressed beside him, rubbing his hand gently and trying to coax any reaction he could out of him, the rest of the table didn't look much better. Bill blinked rapidly, the only way to prevent the tears burning his eyes from spilling.

In a sullen voice, Dad continued "It's so busy nowadays, you see. I had to go early to grab a space. I didn't… I didn't want to have to do it but we can't put it off forever and I've been procrastinating so much already. Your mother and I have to go at noon, I imagine we'll probably spend most of the day there. Can I count on you all to behave and look after yourselves?" There was a spattering of nods around the room. Dad sighed "I'm sorry that you have to go through this, all of it. You're so young…" He cut off with a choked voice. Mum rubbed his leg under the table with a sad smile.

* * *

Percy was sitting at the desk, sifting through papers and trying desperately hard to lose himself in the words and statistics. It was hard, though, to forget about what'd happened with George sitting emptily in the chair right next to him. It was actually quite spooky, really, him sitting in a lone chair, rigidly straight and as still as a corp… as a statue; he'd been doing so all day. Well, Percy did deserve to be haunted. Everyone had had their turn trying to coax George into talking, eating, moving, doing anything at all; it seemed like trying to help George helped them, the feeling of having a purpose, of having something to do. No one had succeeded yet, though. Percy supposed he was also just trying to be useful, doing paperwork and whatever else he could get his hands on. It wasn't actually anything immediately important or pressing but it was something to do. He'd take anything to escape from the black hole that his mind had become.

"What're you doing?" the voice made Percy jump almost straight out of his chair, he hadn't been expecting any noise since it was currently just him and George in the room. Percy stared dumbly at his little brother for a moment before responding "I-I… Just some paperwork. Bills and tax, going over some legal matters on stuff I managed to get my hands on." He said, still starstruck that George had spoken. He felt as if he should say more but he was completely taken of guard and didn't really know what to do, this was more Bill or Charlie's area.

"C'n I help?" George said simply, astounding Percy even more.

"Y-Yes? Yes, of course." He said, budging over to give George space and almost falling of his chair again in his haist. George was still nearly expressionless but Percy imagined that he might have seen the hint of a smile in the crinkle of his eyes.

Percy sat stiffly and awkwardly, like he was standing on a landmine, or holding a newborn baby for the first time. He didn't want to do anything wrong that'd make George go away and start being quiet again. Well, he was actually quiet as he worked, didn't mutter a single word more but at least he was doing something, and doing it very well; he was often picking up on things that Percy missed. As time went by, George started to slow, becoming more tired looking and sluggish. Percy frowned in worry, that was probably the result of little sleep and no food kicking in. If George didn't start to treat his body better then he may get in serious trouble health wise. They might have to start force feeding him energy replenishment potions or perhaps… His thoughts were cut off when George fell asleep where he was sitting, his head falling onto Percy's shoulder. Percy sighed and pulled George closer, for comfort and to stop him from falling over. He looked out of the window, it was starting to become dark; almost time to sleep anyway, there was no point in disturbing the boy.

Not too long later, Charlie walked in, looking very surprised at the scene he saw before him. Percy just gave a half smile in response.

"No sign of mum and dad, then?" He asked quietly.

Charlie shook his head "No, but I wouldn't worry; it takes time." In a forcedly more upbeat tone he continued "I was just coming to get the pair of you for bed. You can stay up if you'd like but everyone else is turning in for the day."

Percy nodded, "Yeah, I'll probably head up too. Nothing else for me to do." He didn't want to admit that he was eager to escape into the nothingness of dreams, even if only nightmares awaited him at least he could say they were not real. Unfortunately, Charlie seemed to see it, or something, in his eyes and a dark, worried look came over him.

He rested a hand on Percy's back for a moment before attempting to lift George. The moment his fingers touched him, however, (maybe possibly a fraction of a second before if Percy's eyes didn't deceive him) George awoke with a start, recoiling sightly from the touch, afraid. He looked fevered, not quite awake. Charlie's breath caught in his throat and Percy felt his heart ache at the sight.

"Hey," Charlie said gently, with a soothing smile "It's okay. Just me. I came to take you to bed, yeah?" George nodded in response. "Do you want to sleep in my bed or in your room?" Before Charlie had even finished talking, George was shaking his head desperately, a pleading look in his eyes. "Okay, hey, it's okay." Charlie said, running a hand through George's hair "You can stay with me, baby boy." he kissed him gently on the head. Percy's heart ached with a mixture of pain over seeing his brother in such a state and longing for such a close relationship with any of his siblings.

Awake now, George no longer needed to be carried by Charlie; the started to make their way out of the room. Percy started piling up the papers, which he and George had made a real dent in. A shuffling at the door made Percy look up from his tidying. There stood George in the door frame, half hidden. Percy smiled at him and waited to see what George wanted to do.

After a moment of silently standing there, George spoke "It wasn't your fault, Percy." he said simply, eyes burning into his own with some strong emotion that Percy couldn't identify, as if he was trying to convey an important message. Percy was speechless, George's words striking a chord within him. He felt himself tear up, a mixture of emotions overcoming him. He wished George's words were true, he daren't believe it. It meant more to him, though, than he realized it would that George didn't think he was to blame. By the time he'd managed to clear his vision the doorway was empty again.

* * *

"Charlie?" The voice made Charlie, who had been starting to get lulled to sleep by the silence, jump with a start.

"Yes, Georgie?" he said, their voices soft even in the silence. George hadn't spoken since Dad had brought up the funeral, as far as Charlie knew, anyway.

"I feel like I'm drowning. It's so cold and I can't breath, I keep going under no matter how hard I try to stay up and there's nothing I can do about it. I keep going under for longer and longer and it's dark and every time I don't know if I'll come back up. There's nothing I can do, I don't know what to do. I'm so scared."

Charlie's breath caught in his throat, his eyes stinging with tears. He pulled his brother close up against his chest, his arms wrapped around him tightly.

"It'll be okay, Georgie. I'll be here for you, through the good and the bad, no matter what I will always be here."


	5. Chapter 5

George sat numbly in the front row, eyes wide and unblinking. It was Fred's funeral. He didn't remember why he'd been so afraid of this day, so absolutely horrified of it, filled to the brink with dread. He'd paced his room shaking for hours, his arms wrapped around himself for any little comfort he could muster. He'd cried, screamed, sobbed, begged but nothing had helped. He'd even go so far as to walk up to his dad with the intention of pleading for him to call of the funeral but when he'd gotten to him he had simply opened his mouth silently then burst into tears. His father had taken him gently into his arms and been with him until he'd collapsed with exhaustion. He had felt the most bitter agony for days, he could barely keep still or silence his screams as he couldn't have peace from it, not for a second. But then he had found the solution.

He'd been alone in his room at the time; which was not surprising, he spent most of his time in his room alone these days. He'd been so angry, so bitterly angry at the world and at himself. All it would have taken was one person to be there for one moment to save Fred, it could have been anyone. And that was why he was angry at every single person in the whole wide bloody world. Then there was that stupid mirror that insisted on showing him what he couldn't have. Fred's beautiful eyes, Fred's flaming hair, Fred's constellation of freckles, Fred's everything right there in front of him. He'd reached out in a desperate trance, letting out a sob when his fingers hit glass.

He glared at the thing, how dare the glass keep him from his twin! Then he looked back at his reflection and saw in despair that what lay there was nothing like his twin. Those eyes were cynical and empty, that hair was limp and uncut, those freckles looked more like a disease against grey skin. He laughed hysterically at how he looked far more dead than his twin. The smile fell from his face, replaced with a heavy glare. How dare he mar his twin's features in such a way! How dare the mirror attempt to imitate his twin! In depressive rage he lashed out, punching the mirror right where his face was so he didn't have to lay his eyes on the sight for a moment longer. The mirror shattered into pieces, scattering around the room, some shards even digging into his arms and legs but he didn't notice any of it. The pain was excruciating, his fist was on fire. It burned at the very core and spread through the limb and to the rest of him. His vision faded and there was nothing he could think of but the all consuming pain.

When his vision cleared he was on the floor. There was a bloody handprint on the wall, a trail of it sliding down to the floor where he now lay. He looked at his hand curiously and yes it did seem to fit, it was the right size, right hand and certainly had enough blood gushing out to make such a print and yet he didn't remember doing that. The room was a mess, the broken mirror was swinging on it's side, his arm was oozing blood and probably fractured if not broken, and there was absolutely no way no one else in the house had heard that; they were probably rushing to help him that second. And yet he didn't care, it didn't worry him; his mind was fixated on the burning pain as he slumped back against the carpet, stray shards of glass digging into his back. The pain was all consuming, demanding every bit of attention his mind could provide. It ebbed and flowed, edging away to an almost bearable ache then pouncing back.

It was actually quite… nice? It wasn't like the cruciatus curse, as if someone was grating his nerves raw. It was more… clean? straightforward? hearty? Somehow he couldn't find the word to describe it. Probably because there was no word to describe pain as good because it wasn't and he was just fucking insane, said a distant voice in the back of his mind; he paid it no heed. Well, the pain certainly wasn't any less than the pain of a cruciatus curse, it wasn't any less damaging to his body if the blood pooling around him was anything to go by and yet somehow it was… enjoyable? It felt warm, like chocolate after a dementor attack, or hugs. It felt crisp like drinking water when you were dying of thirst. It felt… orgasmic, did that make sense? Was he crazy? No, it did make sense, he decided.

It was a sudden rush of feeling, a harsh nerve reaction, a release from the numbness, the anger, the pain. Could pain give you release from pain? Apparently so, he was distracted from all his thoughts and worries, he could no longer feel it he was too busy feeling this. It wasn't like the numbness when he had also been unable to feel everything, because he really actually was feeling something. The numbness had been plastic wrapped over his face, blinding and suffocating him. The pain was a knife cutting through that, setting him free, letting him gasp in the fresh air. And it was so punishing too, he deserved that after all. It was positively cathartic.

Panicked voices and footfalls could be heard to get closer and closer to the door.

That was two days ago. Now, he was sitting in a crowd of family and friends gathered to mourn the death of Fred. He could do it, he could get through this day; he knew how to now. That morning before coming, before even putting his suit on, he'd… gotten ready. At first he had gone to the kitchen to find a knife or other sharp tool that could be of use but Ron had been sitting right there watching him, insisting on small talk and not bloody going away. He'd left with an irritated huff, digging his nails into the unhealed wounds on his hand to keep calm. It was okay, he'd find something. He'd then walked briskly up to the bathroom, there were always stray blades around there. But Bill was in there brushing his teeth! It was like they were all ganging up against him, like they wanted to steal this little piece of peace away from him. But no, they couldn't be; they didn't even know he was doing this.

With a desperate sob, George fell down onto his bed then gasped, recoiling in pain and surprise. Something sharp had dug into his hip. Hands trembling eagerly, George fumbled around on the blanket until his fingers brushed against something small, rugged and cold. He picked it up gently and brought it up to his eyes for inspection, the sight made a grin break onto his face. It was a shard of glass from the mirror, it must have escaped his family's cleaning by being nestled between the wrinkles of his sheets. This was perfect! Hands clumsy with haste, George brought the thing to his skin then paused; where should he cut? He could not be discovered, they'd take this away from him if they found out! He couldn't lose this, it was all he had, it was the only thing keeping him alive.

So he had to cut somewhere unseen. That'd be hard considering his family had taken to bathing him or at least being there when he bathed himself, he didn't know why really. He was such a fucking burden to his family, he should just die, die, diedeaddie… George shook himself and quickly dug the shard into his upper thigh, the soft area that was hidden when his legs were together. This place was close enough to his groin that no one looked there except fleetingly, and he wasn't far gone enough to actually cut his genitals so his thighs would do just fine. The pain was instant and perfect, the cut was swift and clean, blood dribbled sluggishly down his thighs. He let his eyes flutter close as he was washed away with the stream of blood, his mind blissfully blank as the feeling of painpainpain overcame him.

He fell from the giddy high far sooner than he'd have wanted, far sooner than he had last time. He curled up, pulling his legs to his chest with a gasp, panting softly as he frowned in confusion. He just needed to do it more, he decided. He started cutting his thighs with a rhythm, line under line under line of red until he had to stop, no longer being able to see where the cuts were through all the blood. He went limp on the bed and allowed himself a moment to… not enjoy, savour it perhaps. He couldn't let himself fall asleep, he couldn't risk being caught like this, so, to his dismay, he soon had to drag himself back up. He ripped a stray t-shirt in two and wrapped a part around each leg before pulling on his suit trousers then the rest of his ensemble. George closed his eyes and pressed his thigh to spur on another wave of pain, letting out a ragged breath as he did so. When he opened his eyes, his face was cold and emotionless. He turned on his heel and made his way out to the funeral.

And there he sat, glass shard gripped tightly in his pocket, like a lifeline or an escape button, there when he needed it. Now he was there he could no longer cut his thigh, it'd be rather noticeable if he out of the blue pulled down his trousers and started slicing up his skin. No, he had decided he would cut his arm, the one that he'd injured the other day; there were still remaining cuts and bruises that hadn't been able to be healed, and he had indeed broken a few fingers as he'd expected. So all in all it looked a mess, who would notice a few more cuts? For now, however, he was still able to make do with the relatively new cuts on his thighs if he aggravated them every now and again.

So it was okay that Fred's dead body was lying there unmoving and pale at the front for everyone to see and mourn. George dug his nails into his thighs. And it was okay that there was a big hole in the ground dug to put Fred's body into. George scratched at his leg until he felt that all the wounds had reopened. It was all fine. Everything was all perfectly fine.

* * *

A loud crash echoed through the whole house, causing Charlie to jump to his feet in panic. The others had too but Charlie paid them no note as he ran in the direction of the smashing noise, panic bubbling within him. That was George's room. They'd decided to let George have some space, if that was what he wanted, to deal with Fred's upcoming funeral. It'd made Charlie uneasy, letting him be alone when he was in this state, but he'd reasoned that it was probably best to let George have time to come to terms with things. He was certainly regretting that now.

Trying very hard to fight back his up and coming panic attack, Charlie ran the final distance to George's door, pulling it open swiftly. The sight that befell him made him freeze in the doorway. George was lying on the floor motionless in a growing pool of blood, shards of shattered glass scattered around him. Charlie let out a stifled sob and fell to the floor next to his brother, desperately feeling for a pulse. He found one, thank Merlin, but there was so much blood… He was hyperventilating by then, a cold sweat overcoming him as panic took full reign. There was so much blood! Where was it coming from? He couldn't tell, every inch of George was covered in so, so much blood; it seemed to be coming everywhere.

He heard footfalls behind him then swearing. He silently, for his voice would no longer respond to him, prayed that whoever it was would help, call a doctor, anything! George was gonna die, he couldn't die, right now he looked so much like Fred…

Someone pulled him to the side, lifting him up and dragging him away from George and the crowd that had formed around him.

"No!" He protested weakly, desperately. He couldn't be away from George, George was dying! He had to… he couldn't… Charlie shook his head in frustration, holding it in his hands. This'd be so much easier if he could breath! There was no oxygen left, no matter how hard he tried to breath, that just caused him to panic more. He, too, was dying; his lungs weren't working, maybe the death eater that had murdered George had stabbed him in the lungs!

"-lie, Charlie? Char, you have to slow your breathing for me, kid." a voice said, barely audible through the rushing in Charlie's ears.

He panted and shook his head, screwing his eyes shut. He couldn't breath slower! He didn't have enough oxygen already without breathing even less, he'd die if he did that. This man wanted him dead, he must be the death eater that killed George! Charlie struggled weakly against the firm grip on his shoulder. That caused the man to curse, which Charlie smiled smugly about. He opened his eyes to see what was happening but his vision was covered in black dots. Charlie's breathing hastened, he was going blind!

"-uck! Charlie, listen to me, it's Bill. You have to slow your breathing. Please?"

Charlie frowned, Bill? Why would Bill want to kill him? Simple answer: he wouldn't, he always wanted what was best for him. So… maybe he should listen? With all the effort left in his suffocating, trembling body, Charlie tried to slow his breathing.

"That's it, Char! You've got it. Slow, deep breaths. There you go, it's just a panic attack, you're just fine."

It took a few tries for him to actually start breathing slowly, it was torturous. He felt like he couldn't breath, like he was tied to an anchor at the bottom of the sea, on his last bit of oxygen yet he was still letting out air bubbles.

Slowly, the room came back into focus, along with his mind. He let out a relieved, exhausted breath and let his head fall back, hitting the wall behind him with a light, satisfying bump. He felt Bill wrap his arms around him and opened his eyes, looking up at his brother. Bill smiled back at him, encouragingly, though there was definitely sadness there. Shifting, Charlie looked across the room where Mum along with Hermione were doing something to George, he couldn't see what. But probably tending to his wounds and cleaning him up. Judging from the way that people weren't panicking anymore, the situation must be under control. Charlie bowed his head in shame. He should have been doing that too, he should have been helping George and instead he only made even more of a problem himself.

"Don't." Bill said firmly, making Charlie jump slightly.

"What?" He asked confusedly, looking at him. Bill fixed him with a stern look.

"Don't think that." He elaborated.

Charlie frowned "You know, bro, I might be fabulously insightful but I'm not actually psychic."

Bill rolled his eyes "I mean, don't think that; that you're a problem, that you deserve to be hated for not helping, that you should be embarrassed, that it's not okay. It's a panic attack, there's nothing wrong with it. It's certainly not surprising after what we've been through. There's nothing you can do to stop it."

Charlie huffed and let his head fall onto Bill's shoulder "Yeah. I hate it, though, I hate it utterly and completely. Being so… so… helpless! And… broken! I just… It's not fair." He finished lamely.

Bill nodded "I know. It's bloody shitty but it's the way it is, I suppose. You're alright, though and that's what matters.

Charlie only snorted in response which caused Bill to frown.

"You know we care, right? That we love you so much and that if anything were to happen-"

Charlie nodded vigorously in response "Yeah, I know, I know!"

Bill let out a huff of breath "For a moment there I thought…" he laughed humorless "I know you can't die of panic attacks but with your eyes rolling back and the way you went all pale… It scared me, y'know?"

Charlie felt a new wave of guilt overcoming him "'m sorry." he murmured. Bill frowned and smacked him lightly on the thigh.

"Ow!" he exclaimed "What was that for?"

"Don't apologise! What'd I just say?"

Charlie rolled his eyes "There's nothing wrong with having panic attacks and I shouldn't be ashamed… mum."

"Oh so you want me to play mum? I can play mum if you wa-"

"No, no, I'm good!" Charlie said hastily.

* * *

"Sweetheart, can you move those two fingers?" Molly was answered by only silence. She sighed softly, a new bit of sadness filling her already bursting soul. George was okay now… relatively. They'd carefully removed the glass and healed his injuries, wrapping the ones too deep to heal. His index and middle finger were broken, she'd healed it to the best of her abilities but they'd been broken in so many places, there was really nothing to do other than wait. She was binding them carefully, setting them so they'd heal right.

George was lying in his bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He had been unable to sit upright, as if he had lost the energy and conviction to even do that small action. Molly felt herself tearing up, she remembered when Fred and George first sat up without support as babies. No one knew who'd done it first, she'd just walked out for a moment and when she walked back in they were sitting up, giggling gleefully as they painted the wall with chalk. Her poor babies! Back then she never knew… She never even entertained the thought that…! That… this could happen. Molly sobbed heartfully, pulling George's limp body into a hug.

"Oh, my poor baby! My poor, sweet child!"

* * *

As George watched Ginny finish her speech and refind her seat, he was aware of all of the looks shot his way. Surprised, judging and concerned looks earnt by the fact that he had not made a speech of his own. Everyone had told him he should make a speech, said they knew he may not be up for it but he might regret it if he didn't. He was, after all, Fred's twin. If anyone should make a speech it was him. He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, gritting his teeth as if he was being tortured. 'I can't make a speech,' he thought 'I'd be accepting that you're dead then, that this is the end. I can't, I can't, I can't, I-I… I'm sorry, Fred, I'm sorry. Please don't hate me, please understand! I won't say goodbye, I won't accept it!' He was crying now, in despair he realised that the pain wasn't going to stop it.

He let out a horrified gasp; this was everyone saying goodbye to Fred, this was everyone letting go. They were giving up, they were going to put him in that big hole in the ground and close the lid, they were sending him away. This was goodbye whether George accepted it or not, and he wasn't even giving a fucking speech. George screwed his eyes shut at the unbearable flood of emotion drowning him, he let out a whimper of despair and blindly stabbed down with the glass, his eyes shooting open and his mouth opening in a silent scream. His thoughts and the unendurable feelings dissolved to black.


End file.
